Alger Horatio Jr.
Brave and Bold; Or, The Fortunes of Robert Rushton
CHAPTER XXV.
A DECLARATION OF WAR
If Robert was surprised, Ben Haley had even more reason for astonishment. He had supposed his young enemy, as he chose to consider him, quietly living at home in the small village of Millville. He was far from expecting to meet him on shipboard bound to India. There was one difference, however, between the surprise felt by the two. Robert was disagreeably surprised, but a flash of satisfaction lit up the face of the mate, as he realized that the boy who had wounded him was on the same ship, and consequently, as he supposed, in his power.
"How came you here?" he exclaimed, hastily advancing toward Robert.
Resenting the tone of authority in which these words were spoken, Robert answered, composedly:
"I walked on board."
"You'd better not be impudent, young one," said Ben, roughly.
"When you tell me what right you have to question me in that style," said Robert, coolly, "I will apologize."
"I am the mate of this vessel, as you will soon find out."
"So I supposed," said Robert.
"And you, I suppose, are the cabin-boy. Change your clothes at once, and report for duty."
Robert felt sincerely thankful at that moment that he was not the cabin-boy, for he foresaw that in that case he would be subjected to brutal treatment from the mate—treatment which his subordinate position would make him powerless to resent. Now, as a passenger, he felt independent, and though it was disagreeable to have the mate for an enemy, he did not feel afraid.
"You've made a mistake, Mr. Haley," said our hero. "I am not the cabin-boy."
"What are you, then?"
"I am a passenger."
"You are telling a lie. We don't take passengers," said Ben Haley, determined not to believe that the boy was out of his power.
"If you will consult the captain, you may learn your mistake," said Robert.
Ben Haley couldn't help crediting this statement, since it would have done Robert no good to misrepresent the facts of the case. He resolved, however, to ask the captain about it, and inquire how it happened that he had been received as a passenger, contrary to the usual custom.
"You will hear from me again," he said, in a tone of menace.
Robert turned away indifferently, so far as appearance went, but he couldn't help feeling a degree of apprehension as he thought of the long voyage he was to take in company with his enemy, who doubtless would have it in his power to annoy him, even if he abstained from positive injury.
"He is a bad man, and will injure me if he can," he reflected; "but I think I can take care of myself. If I can't I will appeal to the captain."
Meanwhile the mate went up to the captain.
"Captain Evans," said he, "is that boy a passenger?"
"Yes, Mr. Haley."
"It is something unusual to take passengers, is it not?"
"Yes; but this lad is a friend of the owner; and Mr. Morgan has given me directions to treat him with particular consideration."
Ben Haley was puzzled. How did it happen that Mr. Morgan, one of the merchant princes of New York, had become interested in an obscure country boy?
"I don't understand it," he said, perplexed.
"I suppose the boy is a relation of Mr. Morgan."
"Nothing of the kind. He is of poor family, from a small country town."
"Then you know him?"
"I know something of him and his family. He is one of the most impudent young rascals I ever met."
"Indeed!" returned the captain, surprised. "From what I have seen of him, I have come to quite a different conclusion. He has been very gentlemanly and polite to me."
"He can appear so, but you will find out, sooner or later. He has not the slightest regard for truth, and will tell the most unblushing falsehoods with the coolest and most matter-of-fact air."
"I shouldn't have supposed it," said Captain Evans, looking over at our hero, at the other extremity of the deck. "Appearances are deceitful, certainly."
"They are in this case."
This terminated the colloquy for the time. The mate had done what he could to prejudice the captain against the boy he hated. Not, however, with entire success.
Captain Evans had a mind of his own, and did not choose to adopt any man's judgment or prejudices blindly. He resolved to watch Robert a little more closely than he had done, in order to see whether his own observation confirmed the opinion expressed by the mate. Of the latter he did not know much, since this was the first voyage on which they had sailed together; but Captain Evans was obliged to confess that he did not wholly like his first officer. He appeared to be a capable seaman, and, doubtless, understood his duties, but there was a bold and reckless expression which impressed him unfavorably.
Ben Haley, on his part, had learned something, but not much. He had ascertained that Robert was a protégé of the owner, and was recommended to the special care of the captain; but what could be his object in undertaking the present voyage, he did not understand. He was a little afraid that Robert would divulge the not very creditable part he had played at Millville; and that he might not be believed in that case, he had represented him to the captain as an habitual liar. After some consideration, he decided to change his tactics, and induce our hero to believe he was his friend, or, at least, not hostile to him. To this he was impelled by two motives. First, to secure his silence respecting the robbery; and, next, to so far get into his confidence as to draw out of him the object of his present expedition. Thus, he would lull his suspicions to sleep, and might thereafter gratify his malice the more securely.
He accordingly approached our hero, and tapped him on the shoulder.
Robert drew away slightly. Haley saw the movement, and hated the boy the more for it.
"Well, my lad," he said, "I find your story is correct."
"Those who know me don't generally doubt my word," said Robert, coldly.
"Well, I don't know you, or, at least, not intimately," said Haley, "and you must confess that I haven't the best reasons to like you."
"Did you suffer much inconvenience from your wound?" asked Robert.
"Not much. It proved to be slight. You were a bold boy to wing me. I could have crushed you easily."
"I suppose you could, but you know how I was situated. I couldn't run away, and desert your uncle."
"I don't know about that. You don't understand that little affair. I suppose you think I had no right to the gold I took."
"I certainly do think so."
"Then you are mistaken. My uncle got his money from my grandfather. A part should have gone to my mother, and, consequently, to me, but he didn't choose to act honestly. My object in calling upon him was to induce him to do me justice at last. But you know the old man has become a miser, and makes money his idol. The long and short of it was, that, as he wouldn't listen to reason, I determined to take the law into my own hands, and carry off what I thought ought to come to me."
Robert listened to this explanation without putting much faith in it. It was not at all according to the story given by Mr. Nichols, and he knew, moreover, that the man before him had passed a wild and dissolute youth.
"I suppose what I did was not strictly legal," continued Ben Haley, lightly; "but we sailors are not much versed in the quips of the law. To my thinking, law defeats justice about as often as it aids it."
"I don't know very much about law," said Robert, perceiving that some reply was expected.
"That's just my case," said Ben, "and the less I have to do with it the better it will suit me. I suppose my uncle made a great fuss about the money I carried off."
"Yes," said Robert. "It was quite a blow to him, and he has been nervous ever since for fear you would come back again."
Ben Haley shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
"He needn't be afraid. I don't want to trouble him, but I was bound he shouldn't keep from me what was rightly my due. I haven't got all I ought to have, but I am not a lover of money, and I shall let it go."
"I hope you won't go near him again, for he got a severe shock the last time."
"When you get back, if you get a chance to see him privately, you may tell him there is no danger of that."
"I shall be glad to do so," said Robert.
"I thought I would explain the matter to you," continued the mate, in an off-hand manner, "for I didn't want you to remain under a false impression. So you are going to see a little of the world?"
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose that is your only object?"
"No. I have another object in view."
The mate waited to learn what this object was, but Robert stopped, and did not seem inclined to go on.
"Well," said Haley, after a slight pause, "as we are to be together on a long voyage, we may as well be friends. Here's my hand."
To his surprise, Robert made no motion to take it.
"Mr. Haley," said he, "I don't like to refuse your hand, but when I tell you that I am the son of Captain Rushton, of the ship, Norman, you will understand why I cannot accept your hand."
Ben Haley started back in dismay. How could Robert have learned anything of his treachery to his father? Had the dead come back from the bottom of the sea to expose him? Was Captain Rushton still alive? He did not venture to ask, but he felt his hatred for Robert growing more intense.
"Boy," he said, in a tone of concentrated passion, "you have done a bold thing in rejecting my hand. I might have been your friend. Think of me henceforth as your relentless enemy."
He walked away, his face dark with the evil passions which Robert's slight had aroused in his breast.
CHAPTER XXVI.
OUT ON THE OCEAN
We must now go back nearly two years. Five men were floating about in a boat in the Southern ocean. They looked gaunt and famished. For a week they had lived on short allowance, and now for two days they had been entirely without food. There was in their faces that look, well-nigh hopeless, which their wretched situation naturally produced. For one day, also, they had been without water, and the torments of thirst were worse than the cravings of hunger. These men were Captain Rushton and four sailors of the ship Norman, whose burning has already been described.
One of the sailors, Bunsby, was better educated and more intelligent than the rest, and the captain spoke to him as a friend and an equal, for all the distinctions of rank were broken down by the immediate prospect of a terrible death.
"How is all this going to end, Bunsby?" said the captain, in a low voice, turning from a vain search for some sail; in sight, and addressing his subordinate.
"I am afraid there is only one way," answered Bunsby. "There is not much prospect of our meeting a ship."
"And, if we do, it is doubtful if we can attract their attention."
"I should like the chance to try."
"I never knew before how much worse thirst is than hunger."
"Do you know, captain, if this lasts much longer, I shall be tempted to swallow some of this sea water."
"It will only make matters worse."
"I know it, but, at least, it will moisten my throat."
The other sailors sat stupid and silent, apparently incapable of motion,
"I wish I had a plug of tobacco," said one, at last.
"If there were any use in wishing, I'd wish myself on shore," said the second.
"We'll never see land again," said the third, gloomily. "We're bound for Davy Jones' locker."
"I'd like to see my old mother before I go down," said the first.
"I've got a mother, too," said the third. "If I could only have a drop of the warm tea such as she used to make! She's sitting down to dinner now, most likely, little thinking that her Jack is dying of hunger out here."
There was a pause, and the captain spoke again.
"I wish I knew whether that bottle will ever reach shore. When was it we launched it?"
"Four days since."
"I've got something here I wish I could get to my wife." He drew from his pocketbook a small, folded paper.
"What is that, captain?" asked Bunsby.
"It is my wife's fortune."
"How is that, captain?"
"That paper is good for five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand dollars wouldn't do us much good here. It wouldn't buy a pound of bread, or a pint of water."
"No; but it would—I hope it will—save my wife and son from suffering. Just before I sailed on this voyage I took five thousand dollars—nearly all my savings—to a man in our village to keep till I returned, or, if I did not return, to keep in trust for my wife and child. This is the paper he gave me in acknowledgment."
"Is he a man you can trust, captain?"
"I think so. It is the superintendent of the factory in our village—a man rich, or, at any rate, well-to-do. He has a good reputation for integrity."
"Your wife knew you had left the money in his hands?"
"No; I meant it as a surprise to her."
"It is a pity you did not leave that paper in her hands."
"What do you mean, Bunsby?" asked the captain, nervously. "You don't think this man will betray his trust?"
"I can't say, captain, for I don't know the man; but I don't like to trust any man too far."
Captain Rushton was silent for a moment. There was a look of trouble on his face.
"You make me feel anxious, Bunsby. It is hard enough to feel that I shall probably never again see my wife and child—on earth, I mean—but to think that they may possibly suffer want makes it more bitter."
"The man may be honest, captain: Don't trouble yourself too much."
"I see that I made a mistake. I should have left this paper with my wife. Davis can keep this money, and no one will be the wiser. It is a terrible temptation."
"Particularly if the man is pressed for money."
"I don't think that. He is considered a rich man. He ought to be one, and my money would be only a trifle to him."
"Let us hope it is so, captain," said Bunsby, who felt that further discussion would do no good, and only embitter the last moments of his commander. But anxiety did not so readily leave the captain. Added to the pangs of hunger and the cravings of thirst was the haunting fear that by his imprudence his wife and child would suffer.
"Do you think it would do any good, Bunsby," he said, after a pause, "to put this receipt in a bottle, as I did the letter?"
"No, captain, it is too great a risk. There is not more than one chance in a hundred of its reaching its destination. Besides, suppose you should be picked up, and go home without the receipt; he might refuse to pay you."
"He would do so at the peril of his life, then," said the captain, fiercely. "Do you think, if I were alive, I would let any man rob me of the savings of my life?"
"Other men have done so."
"It would not be safe to try it on me, Bunsby."
"Well, captain?"
"It is possible that I may perish, but you may be saved."
"Not much chance of it."
"Yet it is possible. Now, if that happens, I have a favor to ask of you."
"Name it, captain."
"I want you, if I die first, to take this paper, and guard it carefully; and, if you live to get back, to take it to Millville, and see that justice is done to my wife and child."
"I promise that, captain; but I think we shall die together."
Twenty-four hours passed. The little boat still rocked hither and thither on the ocean billows. The five faces looked more haggard, and there was a wild, eager look upon them, as they scanned the horizon, hoping to see a ship. Their lips and throats were dry and parched.
"I can't stand it no longer," said one—it was the sailor I have called Jack—"I shall drink some of the sea water."
"Don't do it, Jack," said Bunsby. "You'll suffer more than ever."
"I can't," said Jack, desperately; and, scooping up some water in the hollow of his hand, he drank it eagerly. Again and again he drank with feverish eagerness.
"How is it?" said the second sailor,
"I feel better," said Jack; "my throat so dry."
"Then I'll take some, too."
The other two sailors, unheeding the remonstrances of Bunsby and the captain, followed the example of Jack. They felt relief for the moment, but soon their torments became unendurable. With parched throats, gasping for breath, they lay back in agony. Suffering themselves, Captain Rushton and Bunsby regarded with pity the greater sufferings of their wretched companions.
"This is horrible," said the captain.
"Yes," said Bunsby, sadly. "It can't last much longer now."
His words were truer than he thought. Unable to endure his suffering, the sailor named Jack suddenly staggered to his feet.
"I can't stand it any longer," he said, wildly; "good-by, boys," and before his companions well knew what he intended to do, he had leaped over the side of the boat, and sunk in the ocean waves.
There was a thrilling silence, as the waters closed over his body.
Then the second sailor also rose to his feet.
"I'm going after Jack," he said, and he, too, plunged into the waves.
The captain rose as if to hinder him, but Bunsby placed his hand upon his arm.
"It's just as well, captain. We must all come to that, and the sooner, the more suffering is saved."
"That's so," said the other sailor, tormented like the other two by thirst, aggravated by his draughts of seawater. "Good-by, Bunsby! Good-by, captain! I'm going!"
He, too, plunged into the sea, and Bunsby and the captain were left alone.
"You won't desert me, Bunsby?" said the captain.
"No, captain. I haven't swallowed seawater like those poor fellows. I can stand it better."
"There is no hope of life," said the captain, quietly; "but I don't like to go unbidden into my Maker's presence."
"Nor I. I'll stand by you, captain."
"This is a fearful thing, Bunsby. If it would only rain."
"That would be some relief."
As if in answer to his wish, the drops began to fall—slowly at first, then more copiously, till at last their clothing was saturated, and the boat partly filled with water. Eagerly they squeezed out the welcome dregs from their clothing, and felt a blessed relief. They filled two bottles they had remaining with the precious fluid.
"If those poor fellows had only waited," said the captain.
"They are out of suffering now," said Bunsby.
The relief was only temporary, and they felt it to be so. They were without food, and the two bottles of water would not last them long. Still, there was a slight return of hope, which survives under the most discouraging circumstances.
CHAPTER XXVII.
FRANK PRICE
The ship Argonaut, bound for Calcutta, was speeding along with a fair wind, when the man at the lookout called:
"Boat in sight!"
"Where away?"
The sailor pointed, out a small boat a mile distant, nearly in the ship's track, rising and falling with the billows.
"Is there any one in it?"
"I see two men lying in the bottom. They are motionless. They may be dead."
The boat was soon overtaken. It was the boat from the ill-fated Norman, Captain Rushton and Bunsby were lying stretched out in the bottom, both motionless and apparently without life. Bunsby was really dead. But there was still some life left in the captain, which, under the care of the surgeon of the ship, was carefully husbanded until he was out of immediate danger. But his system, from the long privation of food, had received such a shock, that his mind, sympathizing with it, he fell into a kind of stupor, mental and physical, and though strength and vigor came slowly back, Captain Rushton was in mind a child. Oblivion of the past seemed to have come over him. He did not remember who he was, or that he had a wife and child.
"Poor man!" said the surgeon; "I greatly fear his mind has completely given way."
"It is a pity some of his friends were not here," said the captain of the ship that had rescued him. "The sight of a familiar face might restore him."
"It is possible, but I am not sure of even that."
"Is there any clew to his identity?"
"I have found none."
It will at once occur to the reader that the receipt would have supplied the necessary information, since it was dated Millville, and contained the captain's name. But this was concealed in an inner pocket in Captain Rushton's vest, and escaped the attention of the surgeon. So, nameless and unknown, he was carried to Calcutta, which he reached without any perceptible improvement in his mental condition.
Arrived at Calcutta, the question arose: "What shall we do with him?" It was a perplexing question, since if carried back to New York, it might be difficult to identify him there, or send him back to his friends. Besides, the care of a man in his condition would be a greater responsibility than most shipmasters would care to undertake. It was at this crisis that a large-hearted and princely American merchant, resident in Calcutta, who had learned the particulars of the captain's condition, came forward, saying: "Leave him here. I will find him a home in some suitable boarding-house, and defray such expenses as may be required. God has blessed me with abundant means. It is only right that I should employ a portion in His service. I hope, under good treatment, he may recover wholly, and be able to tell me who he is, and where is his home. When that is ascertained, if his health is sufficiently good, I will send him home at my own expense."
The offer was thankfully accepted, and the generous merchant was as good as his word. A home was found for Captain Rushton in the boarding-house of Mrs. Start, a widow, who, thrown upon her own exertions for support, had, by the help of the merchant already referred to, opened a boarding-house, which was now quite remunerative.
"He will require considerable care, Mrs. Start," said Mr. Perkins, the merchant, "but I am ready and willing to compensate you for all the trouble to which you are put. Will you take him?"
"Certainly I will," said the warm-hearted widow, "if only because you ask it. But for you, I should not be earning a comfortable living, with a little money laid up in the bank, besides."
"Thank you, Mrs. Start," said the merchant. "I know the poor man could be in no better hands. But you mustn't let any considerations of gratitude interfere with your charging a fair price for your trouble. I am able and willing to pay whatever is suitable."
"I don't believe we shall quarrel on that point," said the widow, smiling. "I will do all I can for your friend. What is his name?"
"That I don't know."
"We shall have to call him something."
"Call him Smith, then. That will answer till we find out his real name, as we may some day, when his mind comes back, as I hope it may."
From that time, therefore, Captain Rushton was known as Mr. Smith. He recovered in a considerable degree his bodily health, but mentally he remained in the same condition. Sometimes he fixed his eyes upon Mrs. Start, and seemed struggling to remember something of the past; but after a few moments his face would assume a baffled look, and he would give up the attempt as fruitless.
One day when Mrs. Start addressed him as Mr. Smith, he asked:
"Why do you call me by that name?"
"Is not that your name?" she asked.
"No."
"What, then, is it?"
He put his hand to his brow, and seemed to be thinking. At length he turned to the widow, and said, abruptly:
"Do you not know my name?"
"No."
"Nor do I," he answered, and left the room hastily.
She continued, therefore, to address him as Mr. Smith, and he gradually became accustomed to it, and answered to it.
Leaving Captain Rushton at Calcutta, with the assurance that, though separated from home and family, he will receive all the care that his condition requires, we will return to our hero, shut up on shipboard with his worst enemy. I say this advisedly, for though Halbert Davis disliked him, it was only the feeling of a boy, and was free from the intensity of Ben Haley's hatred.
No doubt, it was imprudent for him to reject the mate's hand, but Robert felt that he could not grasp in friendship the hand which had deprived him of a father. He was bold enough to brave the consequences of this act, which he foresaw clearly.
Ben Haley, however, was in no hurry to take the vengeance which he was fully resolved sooner or later to wreak upon our young hero. He was content to bide his time. Had Robert been less watchful, indeed, he might have supposed that the mate's feelings toward him had changed. When they met, as in the narrow limits of the ship they must do every day, the forms of courtesy passed between them. Robert always saluted the mate, and Haley responded by a nod, or a cool good-morning, but did not indulge in any conversation.
Sometimes, however, turning suddenly, Robert would catch a malignant glance from the mate, but Haley's expression immediately changed, when thus surprised, and he assumed an air of indifference.
With Captain Evans, on the other hand, Robert was on excellent terms. The captain liked the bold, manly boy, and talked much with him of the different countries he had visited, and seemed glad to answer the questions which our hero asked.
"Robert," said the captain, one day, "how is it that you and Mr. Haley seem to have nothing to say to each other?"
"I don't think he likes me, Captain Evans," said Robert.
"Is there any reason for it, or is it merely a prejudice?"
"There is a reason for it, but I don't care to mention it. Not that it is anything I have reason to regret, or to be ashamed of," he added, hastily. "It is on Mr. Haley's account that I prefer to keep it secret."
"Is there no chance of your being on better terms?" asked the captain, good-naturedly, desirous of effecting a reconciliation.
Robert shook his head.
"I don't wish to be reconciled, captain," he said. "I will tell you this much, that Mr. Haley has done me and my family an injury which, perhaps, can never be repaired. I cannot forget it, and though I am willing to be civil to him, since we are thrown together, I do not want his friendship, even if he desired mine, as I am sure he does not."
Captain Evans was puzzled by this explanation, which threw very little light upon the subject, and made no further efforts to bring the two together.
Time passed, and whatever might be Ben Haley's feelings, he abstained from any attempt to injure him. Robert's suspicions were lulled to sleep, and he ceased to be as vigilant and watchful as he had been.
His frank, familiar manner made him a favorite on shipboard. He had a friendly word for all the sailors, which was appreciated, for it was known that he was the protégé of the owner. He was supposed by some to be a relation, or, at any rate, a near connection, and so was treated with unusual respect. All the sailors had a kind word for him, and many were the praises which he received in the forecastle.
Among those most devoted to him was a boy of fourteen, Frank Price, who had sailed in the capacity of cabin-boy. The poor boy was very seasick at first, and Captain Evans had been indulgent, and excused him from duty until he got better. He was not sturdy enough for the life upon which he had entered, and would gladly have found himself again in the comfortable home which a mistaken impulse had led him to exchange for the sea.
With this boy, Robert, who was of about the same age, struck up a friendship, which was returned twofold by Frank, whose heart, naturally warm, was easily won by kindness.
